


Work Experience

by Nicola Mody (Vilakins)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Drama, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-13
Updated: 2005-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilakins/pseuds/Nicola%20Mody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vila is offered an alternative to Cygnus Alpha and encounters a certain Alpha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Published in _Chronicles_

  


"You've got quite a record, Restal." Correction Officer Prasad raised her eyebrows. "Most impressive."

"Oh. Is it?" Vila wavered between regret that he was about to pay for his fame, and pride in his professional achievements. He opted for the latter and grinned.

"It is hardly a joke. Taking you out of circulation will be a pleasure and do wonders for Londondome's crime rates," Prasad said severely.

Resigned, Vila pulled a face, sighed and slumped in his seat. It looked like another involuntary space trip to an unpleasant destination. And all because he'd damned near electrocuted himself on a loose wire in that bank vault time-lock, and knocked himself out when his head hit the safety-deposit boxes behind him as he went down. Not the high point of his career.

"Do you have anything to say, Restal?"

"Couldn't give me a second chance, could you?" Vila looked surreptitiously around.

Besides the efficient-looking but rather pretty Prasad, the office contained within its grey metal walls only a desk and monitor, the two chairs he and Prasad sat on—all made of grey metal—and a very large guard who looked as if he might be. Not much scope there for a quick opportunistic dash for freedom.

"As a matter of fact, that's precisely why you're here."

"Oh?" Vila sat up straighter, then realised what was probably being offered. "Now look, if it's a choice between mindwipe and a penal colony, I know which one I'd go for."

Prasad smiled thinly. "Reprogramming does not appear to work on you. Programming, however, might."

"Eh?"

"You're very good at getting through the most sophisticated computerised security systems. Rather an unusual talent for a member of the Delta service grades, wouldn't you say?"

Vila shrugged.

"Especially one rated as grade four ignorant within that grade."

"Left school at twelve." Vila put on his best sad-puppy look. "Never had a chance."

Prasad touched her light-pen to her screen. "Only that of regrading to Beta technical, it would appear; possibly higher." She pointed her pen at Vila. "I have your entire official record here, Restal, and it makes most interesting reading. You turned down regrading at eleven. Why?"

Vila said nothing. His reasons were none of her business, but what sort of person went off and left his sick mother? Betas might get medical care, but Deltas didn't. Not legally anyway. Not that it had helped in the end.

"Surely you regretted that decision?" Prasad raised her brows. "The Juvenile Detention Wards? Then Correctional Facility One." She shook her head. "A penal colony at only fourteen?"

Vila shrugged. "Occupational hazards."

Prasad frowned and consulted her screen. "You and several other prisoners escaped from CF1 by hijacking a freighter. Five were recaptured and made statements implicating you in the cracking of the locks and the piloting."

Vila smiled, remembering. Now that _had_ been a high point. He and another prisoner had diligently studied the flight training manuals they had found in the trade retraining section of the CF1 library, but when Cronin had been shot during the escape, Vila had become the sole pilot. He luxuriated in the memory of the cheers as he was carried around the flight deck by his fellow convicts after takeoff.

"You were later offered amnesty in return for SFA flight training." Prasad continued. "You promptly acquired a grade four ignorance rating."

"Um...got a knock on the head. Pub fight, you know the sort of thing."

"Restal. Do not dissemble." Prasad pursed her lips in satisfaction. "Yes, I see you know what that means." She turned back to her screen. "I daresay an investigation of sudden windfalls among the testing centre staff would bear fruit, but I'd like to wind this up." She put her head on one side. "Have you heard of Cygnus Alpha?"

Vila had. He turned pale.

"I'll take that as a yes. It is not a pleasant place. Crops do not grow well there, and to survive, you will have to work very hard for the rest of your probably very short life. You lose and so does the Federation. So far, you've been a drain on the system, but you're a talented young man who could be of considerable use to society."

_Makes me sound like a tool. Nice thought, that._ Not, however, one that Vila was willing to voice, appalled as he was at the thought of Cygnus Alpha.

"It's your choice, Restal. You get shipped out next week, or you accept retraining as a computer technician."

"Ah."

"Three month's probationary work experience—"

"Oh."

"—but if you put a foot wrong during that time, you're on the next convict ship out."

"Right. Yes. I suppose..." Vila gulped. "I suppose I'll take the—" his eyes closed briefly in nausea at the very thought of it, and his voice almost gave out, "—work experience."

"Good." Prasad smiled warmly. "Congratulations on a very wise decision." She stood up and reached her hand across the desk. "I wish you the best in your new life."

Vila rose and shook her hand. "Uh, thank you."

"Oh, no, thank _you_, Restal. Cases like yours make my work worthwhile."

Vila left the office, wondering what he had let himself in for, and trudged back to his cell accompanied by the hulking guard. Considering he had just avoided one of the more brutal penal colonies, he did not feel as happy as he ought to. In fact, although he was soon to be freed, he felt... trapped.

* * *

  
Kerr Avon sat in his glass office, seething. This was just the latest insult in a career full of them.

With his brilliant post-graduate degree from Cambrij, he had assumed that he would reach the heights of fame and fortune with his work on the Matter Transmission Project, or, as he had liked to think of it in private moments, the Avon Teleport. And indeed he was the best and brightest of the computer technicians there, a grade two genius no less, with a glittering future seemingly assured. It took a few years to realise that somehow the work assigned to him had gradually changed from the ground-breaking cutting-edge applications of latest theory to the somewhat more mundane.

"You're too outspoken, Avon," Supervisor Kappel had informed him. "We've had our eye on you for some time. Upper management does not consider you entirely reliable."

Avon had stared at her round, plain face with what he thought was an expression of lofty intellectual detachment, but was in fact utter contempt. "Reliable? Well, now, if you prefer mindless obedience to intelligence, I can tell you now that this project is doomed to failure."

"There you are." Kappel shook her head. "That's just what I mean. You're negative and defeatist, not the sort of person we feel can be trusted. Your attitude—"

Avon did not let her finish. He turned and stalked out of her office, resigned, and got a transfer to Civil Administration.

And here he was in his glass-walled office with its metaphorical glass ceiling, as high as a tech could go without abandoning the last vestiges of interesting work for the suffocating bureaucracy of management. To one side, in an adjoining glass office twice the size, sat Technical Supervisor Heeton—technical only in the sense that he supervised techs—a man with a fraction of Avon's intellect and several times his authority. (An interesting thought: was there an inbuilt inverse relationship between ability and reward). To the other side was a bank of filing cabinets and drawers used only to store the enormous numbers of documents, files, and datacubes produced by Heeton (and referred to only by him). In front of Avon stretched the barren waste of a very large office of the sort known as a cube farm. The shiny white cubicles filled the entire floor, each one containing a small white desk, a monitor, a keyboard, and a computer tech.

In the cubicle right outside Avon's door was the latest insult to his dignity—an idiot Delta specifically assigned to him for training. Some sort of petty thief they thought worth rehabilitating. Avon glared at the back of the fool's round head, motionless in front of the training manual on his screen. Avon had met him that morning. The fellow had wide brown eyes and a friendly smile, and had been so inoffensive and eager to please, that Avon had taken considerable pleasure in being extremely rude to him.

It now occurred to Avon that the display on Restal's screen had not changed for the last hour. He smiled grimly. He knew that little trick. He rose, panther-like, and moved up stealthily behind the Delta and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Restal!"

Restal's head slid out of his supporting hands and he jerked awake. "Here! What'd you do that for?" he said resentfully.

"Oh, did I wake you?" Avon asked with mock concern.

"Course you did. And I was having a nice dream too."

Avon was momentarily disconcerted that Restal hadn't even tried to deny it. "Starting your new career as you mean to go on?"

"Not my fault if this stuff's so boring, is it?"

"Perhaps it's time for you to do some real work, then."

Avon slapped down a pile of plastisheets—bug reports and change requests—and went back to his office. He watched Restal tentatively touch them as if they were mined, cautiously read the top one, then finally call up a program and start to look through the code. Avon sighed. He would have to check everything Restal did, then Heeton would check everything once again, just to let Avon know who was in charge.

* * *

  
Vila approached the main doors of the Civil Administration Computer Centre—nice acronym that made—with mixed feelings. In his opinion, sitting at a desk all day was hardly work, not like breaking your back cleaning chemical factory floors as his mother had. In fact it was quite fun at times, finding out what was wrong and fixing it. Solving a puzzle really, bit like cracking a lock. Pity about the people.

He'd been there a week and still hadn't got a smile or anything approaching a conversation out of any of them. He felt depressed just looking at them as they stood silently waiting for lifts, everyone staring unseeingly at their feet, the walls, or the lift indicators. They probably lost social points if they caught someone's eye. Now, there was an idea.

Vila nipped into a full lift just as the doors closed, put his arm against the wall to his right and leaned on it, facing the other occupants. "I must say you hide your excitement well," he said. "Another day of thrills, laughter and fun. I can hardly wait!"

The doors opened behind him and he turned and walked ahead of the group, a bounce in his step. He'd got five of them to look at him, even if it was with contempt. Five points to him. He halted suddenly just inside the techs' room, an arm raised to shield his eyes, while bodies cannoned into him from behind.

"What the hell's the matter with you now?" one woman muttered.

"Snow-blindness." Vila staggered dramatically. "All that white."

"Stop acting the fool."

"Who said I was acting?"

Ten points for making someone actually talk to him. Vila grinned happily and waggled his fingers as he passed the closed glass door labelled 'Comp Tech Sup Heeton'—Heeton merely nodded distractedly—then poked his head round Sen Comp Tech Avon's open door. It was always a toss-up as to whether Avon would rise to the bait or ignore him.

"Hello," Vila said brightly.

Avon looked at him coldly. "Just get to work."

"Aren't you going to say hello back? Didn't your mum teach—"

"I see no point in exchanging remarks which are devoid of useful or informative content."

"Oh." Vila's face fell, then he rallied. "Seeing I knew that already, I think you just did."

He went to his desk, dropped into his chair, and picked through the pile of bugs, selecting the quickest and easiest as usual. He noticed that was getting harder, but they all looked doable. Humming to himself, he started on the first one. This job was a doddle. These dour Alphas and Betas didn't know how lucky they were.

 

Avon watched him, amused despite himself. Restal chatted to himself, hummed, tapped his lightpen annoyingly on his desk while thinking, and occasionally stood and did a strange capering dance which Avon recognised as that performed by football players who had just scored a goal. Avon also noted that Restal had personalised his cubicle with a cartoon taped to one wall. _Fool._ He sighed and began his first task of the day, checking the previous day's output from the junior techs. He started on Restal's fixes first as it was almost unnecessary to test them—they all worked first time—but it was somewhat exasperating that his code could vary from spare and logical to wildly eccentric.

"How's our resident criminal doing?"

For one chilling moment, Avon thought Heeton had found out about his extra activities. "Ah. You mean Restal?"

"Who else?"

Avon leaned back in his chair. "Extremely well, actually, even if he does sometimes take the scenic route."

"Hmm. I think I'll check for myself."

Avon glowered as Heeton left. If Kappel's lack of imagination and blinkered adherence to procedures had annoyed him, Heeton was much worse. He was a petty and narrow-minded bureaucrat who covered his lack of technical expertise with criticism of others' work and complaints about official procedures, which he nonetheless followed to the letter.

Sure enough, it was less than an hour before he left his office, looking purposeful. Avon stared at him with smouldering dislike as he stopped by Restal's desk. Restal, obviously taken in by Heeton's appearance, looked up and gave him a friendly grin. He would soon learn.

Heeton cultivated what Avon could only assume was what the moron thought was an intellectual look. His shoulder-length ginger hair and beard, together with a shambling bear-like gait incongruous in one so thin, gave the erroneous impression of non-conformity, His mind, Avon knew all too well, was as tightly buttoned-down, zipped-up, and dully grey as his clothes.

Avon had no difficulty hearing what Heeton was saying. He possessed a loud and carrying voice, and his assumption that any distraction it caused to others did not matter infuriated Avon.

"Did you work on this?"

Restal's smile faltered. "Uh, yes. What's wrong with it?"

"You were asked to correct an erroneous calculation."

"That's right. And I did."

"You also moved some fields on the screen and changed some wording."

"Yeah, well, they weren't aligned and—"

"Who told you to do that?"

"Oh, it wasn't any trouble, just a—"

"I repeat. Who told you to do it?"

"No-one, but it was so quick and eas—"

"What was that? Who told you to?"

Restal ducked his head and Avon could not hear his reply.

"That's right. No-one. Just do what you're asked in future."

Restal hunched his shoulders.

"Hmm? What was that?"

Restal looked up with a hint of defiance. "Want me to change it back then?"

'That's not necessary. This time." Heeton leaned over to look at the cartoon. He hesitated and frowned, then turned and went into his office, looking baffled.

Avon's eyebrows and estimation of Restal went up. He sauntered over to Restal's desk for a look. The drawing, a cheap print-out, showed a group of savage tribal horsemen on a narrow cliff path, bearing down on a small piece of fruit just in front of their horses' hooves. Restal had carefully coloured the fruit orange with a highlighter pen. The text underneath read: _Fruit of the Galaxy in Danger. Number 23 in a series: The Tangerine._

Avon straightened up, surprised into a delighted smile. Heeton's conventional mind stood no chance of understanding an absurdity like that. Intriguing though, that an uneducated Delta had such an off-beat sense of humour.

"Here's something to get your teeth into," he said, dropping a plastisheet on Restal's desk. "A new program. It's all yours."

He'd intended it for one of the senior techs, but it would be interesting to see what the fellow made of it. Restal looked up at him gratefully, and Avon went back to his office, obscurely worried that he had given rather too much of himself away.

 

Vila decided he didn't like Heeton very much. He had the deep lines in his cheeks that usually meant humour, but his pale grey eyes were as cold as a lawyer's. That Avon on the other hand, was the opposite. He looked a typical over-bred arrogant Alpha, but Vila had seen the gleam of humour in his eyes when he looked at the cartoon, and something else too. Sympathy? Nah, couldn't have been.

He looked at the spec Avon had given him. A routine to work out the most efficient way of packing differently-sized cartons into a cargo-hold with curved bulkheads and deck. Another puzzle, an interesting 3D one this time. Vila rubbed his hands with pleasure, then flexed his fingers as if he were about to crack a lock.

* * *

  
"Is this your work?" Heeton asked.

Vila stared at the fix request as if it would bite him. "Why?"

"Why indeed? Why didn't you correct the table display sequence while you were in the program?"

"No-one asked me to."

"Did you notice it was wrong?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Do it now."

"But you said—"

"And try to use a bit of initiative."

Vila's mouth opened and closed. How did you answer that? Whatever he did or said, it would be wrong. Confused and angry, he turned and watched Heeton walk away, then saw Avon watching him speculatively. Pulling a face, Vila turned back to his monitor. All right then, if that's the way they wanted it, he'd ask Heeton's permission before every change he made. Serve them right if he took ten times as long to do anything. At least he had the cargo stacking problem. Couldn't go wrong if it was his to start with, could he?

* * *

  
It was done! Seeing the thing as a puzzle and reducing it to a set of formulae so elegant and clear they seemed be made of crystal had worked. Vila rose to his feet and acknowledged the roar of acclaim from the stands, punched his fists towards the ceiling and went into his victory dance. Too late he realised that his behind, which took a major role in the proceedings, faced Avon's office.

"Just what is that?" The drawling, educated voice came from—yes—behind him. "The mating ritual of the lesser baboon?"

Vila sat down with what he hoped was simple dignity. "Finished that new one for you."

"Oh? I only gave it to you yesterday." Avon lounged against a partition and regarded the ignored pile of change requests with faint amusement. "I see you have completely ignored all assigned priorities."

"This one was a bit more interesting."

"You won't get far if you only do what interests you, Restal."

Vila thought Avon sounded slightly bitter. "Vila," he said tentatively.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Call me Vila. It's friendlier."

"Doubtless. Get on with your work, Restal." Avon gave the cartoon a quick look and went back to his office.

 

Avon ran some prepared test scenarios through Restal's program. It was both intriguing and extremely annoying that it handled them all perfectly. He checked the code and was surprised at the beautiful simplicity of the algorithm used in the calculations, yet shook his head at its placement in the program's structure or lack thereof. He looked up to see Restal watching him with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

"I'm impressed," Avon said.

Restal's face lit up with pure delight before he turned back to his desk.

Avon put his chin on his hand and considered the fellow. He was rather like the latest cartoon on his partition. It showed an exasperated thief sitting in front of a very small closed safe, surrounded by several other open safes, each one smaller than the one beside it. The caption read, "I hate bleedin' Russian safes."

Until now, Avon had thought of Restal as a common petty thief rather like the one in the picture. He now wondered if he were more like the safes—cracking open one layer would only reveal more layers of unexpected complexity and secretiveness. What did he really know of him? For the first time, he pulled up Restal's criminal record, a relatively easy hack, and read it with growing surprise.

Restal was no ordinary thief, even though he gave the impression of being a fool. He was in fact reputed to be the best cracksman on Earth, perhaps in all the Federated Worlds.

_Well, now._

* * *

  
"I want to talk to you about that new program you wrote."

Vila grinned up at Heeton, expecting more praise.

Heeton dropped a plastisheet on Vila's desk, then tapped it with a finger. "This code here..."

"Yes?" Vila was proud of that bit, marked in red: the loop that did the calculating.

"It's in the wrong place. It should be a separate procedure."

"Eh? Even if it's only called once?"

"Calculations belong in called procedures."

"But it works fine the way it is. If I moved the code, it would still do the same things in the same order. It would just _look_ different. Don't really see the point."

"Don't argue. Just change it."

"But why?" Vila screwed his face up. "Won't make the program work faster or better, will it?"

"Are you deaf or stupid? Move that code. And while you're at it, look at the sections highlighted in blue. I'm told they could be better written."

Heeton turned to go, then paused. "This is your last verbal warning. The next will be in writing and you know what that means. Hmm?"

Vila looked down at his desk, refusing to answer. Cygnus Alpha was what it meant. Heeton stood there, perhaps hoping for an abject apology or a little desperate begging. Sullenly, Vila ignored him until he finally left.

 

As Heeton had spoken with his usual assumption that everyone within a spacial would be interested, Avon had overheard and felt a surge of sympathy for Restal, now slumped dejectedly in his chair. He sauntered over and looked at the latest cartoon, which showed two men about to duel. One, sprawled in an armchair, was saying to the other, "This will teach you to call me bone-idle."

Restal looked up at him. "How do you stand it?" he asked.

Avon considered saying that one got used to it, but decided not to insult him with a lie. "By knowing that I'm better and more intelligent than the average bureaucrat, of which Heeton is a prime example. And," he smiled briefly, "by having a life outside the office."

"Oh." Restal looked thoughtful. "Already got one of those, thanks, but you've given me an idea." He stirred the bug reports about on his desk and sighed. "Does he do that to everyone, or is it just me? Doesn't even call me by name."

"He doesn't call anyone by name, Restal. It's one of his ways of establishing his supremacy. However, yes, he does single you out for special treatment."

"Oh." Restal's shoulders sagged even more. "Why?"

"I should think it was obvious. You're the only one here he can have exiled on a whim. Only the sheer pleasure he gets from that power prevents him from doing so."

"Well, frankly, I'm beginning to think it wouldn't be that bad. On a penal colony at least they talk to you, the other convicts, look at you like you're a real person."

"For what it's worth, you've done quite well here."

"Really?" Restal looked up and grinned slightly. "Couldn't call me Vila, could you?"

"No. I could not." Avon took a step back. Was the fool completely devoid of any social sense? Given names were for one's family or intimates, and in the latter case only if needed. He called Anna 'Anna' only because her knew her brother Del too; they both couldn't be 'Grant'. He was 'Avon' to her though, being the only one she knew. Even he and his half-brother had called each other by their surnames ever since they considered themselves old enough to do so. And this ignorant Delta assumed...far too much. "Get back to work, Restal."

"You lot don't do that, do you?" Restal looked unabashed. "It's different where I come from. See, if your last name's plastered up on all the wanted posters, you get to prefer something a bit more anonymous. Stands to reason."

It did indeed. Avon however had no intention of changing the customs of a grade and a lifetime.

* * *

  
Going through Restal's output the next day, Avon was not surprised to find he had done very little. He now only gave the appearance of working. He had connected his book-pad to his monitor (now, how had he figured out how to do that?) and had one of the probably appalling novels he read on his screen. He must have preternatural hearing though; every time anyone came close, he would change the display to one of slowly-scrolling code. Avon wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or flattered that Restal knew that he could see, and obviously trusted him not to say anything. He sent him a screen message: "There is a certain minimum daily output required. Ascertain it."

Contrary to Avon's expectations, Restal did not turn around to look at him, but instead stretched lazily and waggled all his fingers. Ten work reports required. Avon's mouth twitched in amusement and he turned to his own screen, but not to his assigned work.

A brilliant career was no longer assured, but a more lucrative one could well be.

Since he had been with CACC, he had done quite well, in a minor way. With the cooperation of an old friend he had studied cryptology with, he had succeeded in transferring bank funds from various agriculture subsidies to several personal accounts under various aliases, though he'd almost been caught. There had been no evidence to convict him, but it was as well they hadn't picked up Tynus who would have doubtless blurted out everything to save his own soft skin. The diversion of a shipment of weapons crystals from Space Fleet to one of the neutral worlds had been more successful, but he doubted if he'd work with Keiller again. The fat fool sweated like a pig and had been rather too familiar for Avon's liking.

Yes, these little... private enterprises... helped counteract the sheer stultifying boredom, and the hints he dropped to Anna excited her most gratifyingly. There were times when he wondered how such a cool, detached, wryly-amused person could be so interested in a mere Senior Computer Technician, but when she became flushed and bright-eyed with excitement when he spoke of how much could be removed from the Federation Banking System, he knew. He had always considered himself sentimental about money and little else, and Anna was the same. Avon smiled, thinking of her. They were well-suited. A relationship should always be built on common interests.

He looked forward to seeing Anna that night, and thought about how he would entertain her with stories of Heeton and Restal. At the thought of Heeton, he turned to look at the pompous fool, revelling in his private sense of superiority.

The man sprawled back in his chair, talking vehemently at his monitor, one hand jabbing at the air to punctuate his remarks. If Avon turned on the tiny microphone he had placed at the bottom of the glass wall between them, he would hear Heeton's strident hectoring voice, but the lack of content had deterred him long ago. The man liked to express his opinion on anything from the teachers at his children's school to the latest food rationing and the exact location of the new sewerage plant near his home. He spent more than half the day talking to people who had no connection with his job, yet he earned twice as much as Avon did, based of course on Avon's output and that of the techs in the cube farm.

The pleasure at the thought of Anna left Avon's face and was replaced by bitterness, then astonishment when Heeton suddenly flailed his arms as his chair collapsed beneath him. For one moment, Heeton clung to the edge of his desk, his pale eyes wide with shock before he lost his grip and disappeared with an outraged yell and a crash.

Avon jumped to his feet to see Heeton on all fours, extricating himself from the wreckage of his chair—a sight Avon hoped he would remember for some time. He looked out into the cube farm to see every tech peering over their partition, their surprised eyes disconcertingly like Heeton's in that brief moment, all except Restal's. His were amused.

Heeton stood, brushing himself down. "What are you all looking at? Back to work!"

The heads popped back down again like meerkats going for cover.

Heeton kicked his chair savagely, jabbed at his comms, and bawled 'Maintenance!" Then, obviously realising that he would have to stand or kneel, he swore to himself and went into Avon's office. "I'll need your chair."

"Take all the time you need," Avon said smoothly. "Oh, and the chair too of course." He was damned if he'd wheel the thing to Heeton's office for him too. He went over to Restal's cubicle and leaned against the partition.

"I'm sorry I missed that," Restal said.

"Have you ever seen those odd drawings of a person behind a wall with their nose and fingers over the top of it?"

"A 'wot me worry'?" Restal quoted one of the more common and less seditious captions.

"You get the picture, then."

* * *

  
The next morning, Heeton barged unceremoniously into Avon's office. "What's wrong with my computer?"

"I have no idea." Avon continued to sort through reports.

"It doesn't work!"

"I shall need more than that."

"I can't get into the system."

Avon sighed and followed him out. As they passed him, Restal said, "There's a joke about that. Old computer techs never die—they just can't log on."

Avon suppressed a smile. Heeton ignored him and showed Avon his screen. "No matter what I enter, it says I'm not authorised."

"Hmm." Avon tried a few codes and passwords without success. He bared his teeth at Heeton in a humourless smile. "I've heard some people only know they're fired when they're locked out."

Heeton paled. "That's not funny." He left quickly in the direction of Personnel.

Avon went back to his office and checked from his own computer. It did not take him long to find that someone had got onto Heeton's computer using the maintenance codes, and had then simply displayed a graphic representation of the log-on screen. Simple but effective. It could have been anyone in the department, except for the fact that Heeton locked his office whenever he wasn't in it. Avon killed the looping program, removed the session, and erased the logs relating to it.

"There is no reason why I should not be able to log on. The bloody thing's broken." Heeton was back, his face flushed with anger.

"I think you'll find it works now," Avon said mildly. "It was just frozen. By the way, did you discover what happened to your chair?"

"All the bolts had come loose."

Avon let his teeth show again. "It must be all that leaning back and swivelling you do while you're talking so much."

"Hmph!"

Heeton left and Avon wandered over to Restal's desk. "You know," he said casually, "it might be an idea to restrict yourself to activities which do not require getting through a locked door. It does rather narrow the number of suspects, Restal."

Restal grinned. "Vila."

Avon turned away. "Vila," he said, very quietly. He pretended that he did not see the delighted smile on Restal's face, reflected in the glass wall of his office.

 

When Avon had checked the security tapes and logs for the two previous nights, he sat back thoughtfully. According to the data, no-one had been in the office building outside normal office hours, and no-one had entered Heeton's office. Restal was _good_.

Anna would be pleased.

* * *

  
Anna was very pleased. She flung her arms around Avon in an uncharacteristic display of affection. "The big one at last! I never thought you'd do it," she whispered into his neck.

"Oh, I always planned to. I just needed an accomplice."

"The funny little Delta?"

Avon felt obscurely guilty about amusing her with Restal stories. "Yes."

"And he'll do it?" Anna pulled back and looked at him with eager, bright eyes.

"I haven't asked him yet."

Anna pouted and turned away.

"I'm sure he'll agree. He's a professional." Avon took her chin and gently turned her face back to his. "I'm beginning to think you only want me for the money."

"Oh, no." Anna traced her finger down his cheek. "Money has nothing to do with it."

* * *

  
Heeton paused by the filing cabinet, frowning. The top drawer was open again. Irritated, he slammed it shut and continued on his way. Vila smiled with satisfaction.

"I hardly see the point."

Vila put on his most innocent look, then decided it wouldn't work on Avon. He turned and winked. "Just wait. This one's got a long fuse."

"Do you eat in the staff canteen?"

Where else was there? "Yes. Why?"

"I shall see you there at lunchtime, then."

Vila nodded happily. The first friendly gesture in this place. About time, too.

 

Vila took his usual table in the far corner, the least popular location in the canteen. At first he had tried to join the other techs at their tables, but though the responses had varied—from cold glares and elaborate pretences that he didn't exist to outright rudeness—there was a common thread. Vila was not wanted.

See if he cared. He opened his book and washed down a large bite of toasted sandwich with a swig of hot chocolate.

 

Avon preferred to eat a packed lunch in his office. Both the food and company were better than that offered by CACC. He steeled himself before entering the enormous room where everyone else, it appeared, ate. It was even worse than he remembered. The place was packed, smelt of cheap and fatty food, and the babble of conversation and clatter of cutlery was almost unbearable. _Damn._ He should have asked Vila where he sat.

Now, where would someone like Vila sit? He was a professional criminal, on the wanted lists since he was a child. Against a wall for self-defence? Why not narrow it down further and look in the corners first.

Vila—when had he started thinking of him as Vila?—was in the far corner. Congratulating himself on his logical analysis of the criminal mind, Avon wended his way towards him. Vila sat alone at a table, hunched over a book-pad and a plate of what appeared to be toasted cheese sandwiches with an overpowering component of onion. Avon leaned forward, curious to see what he was reading. _The Diamond Age_? He was not as surprised as he would have been a few weeks earlier to find it was a novel he himself had enjoyed.

"Hello." Vila looked up with a grin and closed his book. "Have a seat." He pushed a second chair towards Avon with his foot.

"I won't stay." Avon remained standing and slid a plastisheet onto the table. "Do you recognise this?"

Vila looked at the building plan and after a few moments, his eyes widened with recognition and shock. "It's the Federation Central Bank!"

"Correct." Avon pointed to the centre of the sheet. "Could you get me into this room?"

Vila peered at the security schematics. "Ooh, a hard one. Yeah, course I could, but look—"

"And get past a dual-turnkey system?"

"If you can hold a probe and help me, no problem, but I'm not really sure I want to." Vila pushed the plans back towards Avon. "I do jewels, art, that sort of thing. I steal from rich people. _People_, not the Federation. That—" he jabbed his finger at the plans. "—that's the heart of it!"

"And if you were caught, they'd send you to a penal colony?" Avon asked smoothly.

"That's right."

"Vila. Listen." Avon leaned on the table. "They will anyway."

"Eh?"

"Do you really think Heeton won't exercise his power over you? Even if he acted against form and decided you were useful enough to keep, how long do you think it would be before you play one practical joke too many, or before your talent and wit is seen as a threat to someone? You're on your way to Cygnus Alpha whatever you do. This way, at least you have a chance."

"If you put it that way..." Vila pulled a face, then looked cunning. "It must be a pretty _good_ chance too, if you're taking it." He narrowed his eyes. "All right, what's in it for me?"

"Apart from a visa and a ticket to freedom?"

"Yeah. You can't do this without me, can you? What's my cut?"

"Ten percent."

"What, a measly ten?"

"Of five million, yes."

"Twenty."

"You're not in a position to bargain."

"I think I am. You got another cracksman?"

"Very well. Twenty."

Vila grinned. "Always wanted to be a millionaire."

Avon rolled up the plans. "I shall be in contact."

"Here?" Vila shook his head. "You know, you don't belong in here any more than I do. People'll notice."

Good, the fellow really was a professional. "I had already considered that. I shall use encrypted messages sent to your machine."

"What if someone cracks your code?"

"Oh, I doubt that very much. Cryptology is one of my fortes."

Avon nodded to Vila and left. He did not feel the slightest guilt about having told him the take was a hundredth of what he hoped to get. After all, he was offering the man a new life.

* * *

  
Avon looked at the latest cartoon. It showed two people walking past a shop called 'Lansar's Duvets. One person was saying to the other, "I knew old Lansar back when he was a conscientious objector in the last war."

Avon gave a short, appreciative laugh.

"Not many people get that one," Vila said.

"Not many know that white feathers were a traditional gift for cowards."

"Oh, I don't know. I've got a few myself."

Avon quickly looked around, then said very quietly, "Tonight."

"All right."

Vila's eyes slid towards Heeton, who was striding towards his filing cabinet, looking furious. The top drawer was even further out than usual. Heeton slammed it home, then leapt several inches into the air at the loud report.

"What the hell!" Avon grabbed at Vila's partition, then regained his composure. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Balloons," Vila said. "Stuffed behind the drawer."

"Ah."

They watched with interest as Heeton investigated.

"Do you have any idea who did this?" Heeton held up a flaccid scrap of purple rubber.

"The whole department has access. It could have been anyone." Avon said coolly. He watched Heeton stump off, muttering, then turned back to Vila. "Nervous?"

"Course I am."

"Good. I'd be worried if you weren't."

* * *

  
"Here we are," Avon said. "The last one."

"Ahh, a physio-psycho lock," Vila said with the delight of a collector finding a rare specimen. "Only a couple of people in the galaxy can get through one of those."

"You'd better be one of them."

"How can you doubt me?" Vila hummed happily as he worked, and the final door swung open. "Ta-dah!"

"Don't rest on your laurels."

Vila grinned. "I've never heard them called that before."

Avon stepped into the inner control centre of the Federation's banking system and removed a datacube from a tunic pocket. "To release the security locks and make any changes to software requires two bank officials to turn keys simultaneously on opposite sides of the room."

"Yeah, yeah, seen it before. They use it in museums."

"Get on with it then."

"I know my job." Vila bent over the first security station, and seemed to take his time, using first one tool then another, while Avon bit his lip impatiently. Finally, Vila looked up.

"Hold this probe here, that's right, then push just there when I say the word."

Avon took the tool and waited while Vila worked on the other station. This time he was faster.

"On three," Vila said softly, "One, two, three."

There was a soft chime and a green light came on over the input terminal. Avon let out the breath he had not realised he was holding, picked up his datacube, inserted it into the reader, activated it, waited a few seconds, then removed it.

"Done. Let's get out of here."

"Eh?" Vila was startled. "That's it?"

Avon smiled. "Oh, I know my job too."

 

They stopped in a darkened street.

"This is where our ways part," Avon said.

"Oh. How long before they know the money's gone?"

"A few hours at most. It will take them longer to work out it wasn't an inside job, which is why I chose tonight. We have two days before we are missed at work, at which time they will realise it was us."

"You off now, then?"

"First thing tomorrow, I'm buying exit visas and leaving for a safe bolt-hole well outside the Federation."

"Good luck," Vila said.

"I don't believe in luck."

"You should if you're buying exit visas. I heard they get the money off you, then top you."

"Don't be a fool."

"Why? Perfect setup, isn't it? People pay them to help them disappear and they do. You can't trust 'em."

"That is why I left it to the last, to give the dealer as little time as possible to play his own game."

"Well, just watch out. I know lots who tried to get out and I never heard from them again."

"That's hardly surprising."

Vila looked impatient. "Yeah, very funny. I'm just warning you. I stole a visa a while back and forged me own. Even so, I might just lie low for a while."

Avon repressed a shudder at the thought of the cramped and cluttered squalor Vila probably lived in. "Then you'd better keep your luck. You may need it."

Vila watched Avon leave, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

* * *

  
"Ten thousand. Each."

Avon slammed his money onto the table. "I was told the deal was a thousand credits a visa."

"The price just went up. I've seen your face before. Just today, in fact. You've suddenly come into a lot of money, haven't you?"

"And you thought you'd get in on it?"

"I'd get a lot more for turning you in. Dead or alive." The visa dealer smiled. "Twenty."

So Vila was right. Avon patted his tunic. "I don't have it on me, but I'll give you what I have." He searched his pockets, trying to look ineffectual. He brought his gun out just as the dealer, suspicious, fired his own. Hit in the shoulder, Avon stumbled, then fired, getting the man once in the belly, and again, aiming more carefully this time, in the head. Swaying, he picked up his money and the two visas, and left. He had to get back to Anna.

He collapsed from loss of blood before he had even left the Delta levels.

* * *

  
Vila sat in his flat with his feet up and his third glass of real wine in his hand. He lifted it and said, "Cheers, Vila," and sipped it appreciatively. Very tasty. He'd nicked that from a toffee-nosed Alpha and kept it for a good occasion. Later, he'd dress in boring grey and go to a bank terminal in the Beta levels and start transferring money out of the numbered account Avon had set up, and into several of his own. For now though, he was celebrating. Pity there wasn't someone to celebrate with. He wondered if there was anything on the news yet.

"Vis on," he said. "News, crime."

The large full-colour screen that covered most of one wall lit up obediently. A beautiful young woman stood outside the Federation State Bank with a serious reporter's frown on her face.

"Last night, an attempt was made to embezzle an as yet undisclosed amount of money from the Federation Central Bank. The crime is thought to be a political one with the aim of undermining the state banking system. Acting on information received, the police are looking for two men in connection with the crime. Alpha grade computer technician Kerr Avon, aged 36—" Avon's official ID photograph appeared on the screen, "—is thought to have masterminded the operation and used a professional thief to gain entry. A bounty of one hundred thousand credits has been placed on Avon's head. This man, Vila Restal, Delta, aged 29—" Vila's picture, the new one he'd had taken for his CACC employee ID, was displayed, "—is also being sought in connection with the crime. A third person, Alpha grade administration officer Anna Grant, aged 32, was arrested and—"

"Off!"

Vila was appalled. He'd never heard of a bounty that size before. Next thing he knew, they'd have one on him. A thing like that could stretch any friendship, certainly the casual ones he had. Staying here was too risky, even though no-one knew about this place. It wouldn't take the police long to realise the little one-room flat rented under his name was only a front.

Avon was right. It was time to go.

Vila looked around his apartment. It had been home for more than ten years, and he was reluctant to leave. It was really two Delta family flats knocked into one, painted white for an added feeling of space (since working in the cube farm he'd considered redoing it in a nice warm cream) and simply furnished. The colour was provided by two original paintings Vila had taken a liking to and a few select pieces from various private collections: jade, antique pottery, ebony, onyx, bejewelled and painted carvings, and a bright woven wall-hanging. There wasn't that much, but he couldn't take any of it with him, not with it all listed as stolen.

He sighed and went to get the small bag he kept packed.

It was only as he was leaving that he began to wonder how they knew. Avon had said it would take them days. But then, Avon wasn't a professional, not like him. He must have blabbed to someone, wanting to show off how clever he was.

Increasingly nervous, Vila headed for the nearest transporter station.

 

He only began to relax once he was out of the dome. He sat back and looked out the transporter window at the fields and the occasional agricultural robot flashing by. A good job he'd done on that visa. They hadn't even looked at it twice at the exit station. Lucky he had the sort of face no-one noticed, not like Avon.

The transporter was half-way to the spaceport when troopers entered the section and began rechecking IDs. Vila considered making a run for it, but abandoned the idea on the grounds that there was nowhere to run. He watched as they arrested two people at the front of the section; perhaps they had whoever they were looking for. He put on his most harmless look and decided to brazen it out.

"ID."

Vila held out his visa and smiled ingratiatingly.

"Del Klyne?"

"That's right."

The trooper looked at a small instrument on her belt. "Not according to this. Your vital signs say you're lying." She spoke into her comms. "This is Sanders. I think I might have one of them." She turned her attention back to Vila. "Put your hands on your head, there's a good boy. And don't look so upset, you still get a nice long space cruise."

* * *

  
Avon sat up groggily. He was on an old and stained couch in a small dingy room.

"Awake?" A tired-looking middle-aged woman spoke from the gloom of the opposite corner. "I'll get you some soup and a bit of protein."

Avon tentatively felt his shoulder. It was still sore, but someone had patched him up. A pity they had not done the same for his clothes.

"Thank you," he said to the woman as she handed him a chipped mug with some watery-looking soup in it. He refused the offer of a protein bar—he suspected they were dosed with suppressants—and sipped the liquid gratefully. "What exactly am I doing here?" Damn, that was almost as stupid as asking where he was.

"Stev found you in the street."

"I see." Well, not really. "How long have I been here?"

"Day and a half." The woman took the mug. "Troopers everywhere out there."

"Yes, I know." Vila must have talked, boasted in some low dive about pulling the big one. Anna... Anna would be frantic with worry. "I need to contact someone."

"No." The woman shook her head. "Not from here, it's too dangerous. You have to leave as soon as you can, Avon."

Avon stiffened. "How do you know my name?" The only ID he had was the two exit visas.

"From the vis. You're top news."

Avon reached into his tunic for his money. "I will need some clothes. Could you possibly buy—" No, not a good idea, he wasn't thinking straight. Where was the other person she had mentioned. On their way to the authorities? He stood up, swaying.

She stepped back, nervously. "Stev got you some clothes before he went to work. Here." She picked up a new grey tunic and shirt and held them out. "The rest of your money's on the table, and your gun."

Avon took the clothes. "Why?"

She understood. "One of your partners is one of us. We look after our own."

"You know Vila?"

She looked scornful. "Never met him, but us Deltas stick together. Have to, don't we?"

"Ah." Favouring his shoulder, Avon carefully removed his bloodstained shirt and picked up the new one. He considered leaving her some money, but he and Anna would need it for...

Avon grabbed her arm and she cried out in pain. "You said '_one_ of your partners'," he said urgently. "Did they mention someone else?"

Her face changed and she turned away.

He tightened his grip. "_Tell me!_"

* * *

  
"I may not look it, but I'm a millionaire." Vila leaned against the holding cell bars. "If I get sent to Cygnus Alpha, all that money goes to waste. Seems a pity, doesn't it? You know, we could both profit if you just—"

The guard laughed. "What money? Oh, I forgot—you don't have a vis-screen in there, do you? Listen, they were ready for you. Had a tracer program running, so they got the lot back."

Vila's face fell. "Oh. Right. Why am I not surprised, I ask myself?"

"Because you're a loser?"

"Not very subtle, are you?"

Vila slumped down on a bench. Loser was right. It wasn't talent that counted, or even who you knew. It was luck, and he'd never had much of that. He sighed and looked around at his fellow prisoners. Might as well make some friends. He'd need them with this lot.

* * *

  
Because his wound required medical treatment, Avon was one of the last convicts delivered to the holding cells. As he was shoved through the door, one of the guards slipped him a piece of paper.

He sat down in a quiet corner and looked at it. Presumably from one of the _London_'s crew, it offered a deal if he hacked the ship's logs so that they could space the prisoners and avoid going all the way to Cygnus Alpha. Avon shrugged. Why not? None of these people meant anything to him. He slipped the note back into a pocket. Of course, there was a good chance that they would kill him too, but a slim chance of survival was better than a probably very short life on one of the worst penal colonies the Federation boasted.

"Hello."

Startled at the familiar voice, Avon looked up. It was Vila.

"So they caught both of us," Vila said.

"Your ability to state the obvious is extraordinary. Go away."

Vila looked hurt. "Thought we were friends."

"You are a fool. We worked together, that is all." Damn the idiot for being here and complicating matters.

Vila sat down. "They knew all along. It was a trap."

Avon looked straight ahead. "Someone talked. Given your chronic verbal diarrhoea, it was probably you."

"Excuse me!" Vila sounded deeply offended. "I'm a professional. If I was that stupid, I wouldn't be where I am now... Oh all right, you know what I mean. You don't keep out of prison for more than ten years in my business by talking about what you're doing."

_True enough_. "Then you were followed."

"I'd know." Vila said flatly. "I was not followed. Maybe your girlfriend let something slip."

"Anna—" Avon turned to look at Vila, who flinched at his expression. "Anna is dead. And yes, she possibly did let something slip. She died under interrogation."

Vila went pale. "Oh... look, I'm sorry."

"That is a great comfort."

"I am, all the same."

"Vila. You are a known criminal and were probably under surveillance the entire time. If I had not met you, Anna..." Avon suddenly found himself unable to go on.

Vila bit his lip and looked down at his hands. "Yeah, well—"

Avon steeled himself. "So go away. I don't want to speak to you, hear you, or see you."

"Oh. Right." Vila stood up and straightened his jerkin. "I think that covers everything."

Avon watched him wander over to a group on the other side of the cell. The slight guilt he felt at making Vila think it was his fault—at least it would keep him out of his way—was swamped by a greater guilt. He remembered all too well. Kappel saying they had their eye on him, Heeton checking everything he did. Vila had just been the bait. They must have been delighted at their luck in getting their hands on someone who would make such a tempting tool for Avon to use to incriminate himself. If only the fellow was not so oddly likeable.

Avon sat back against the wall and briefly considered including Vila in the deal. No, not a good idea to show any weakness that could be used against him. Vila would die with the others. Given what Avon knew about Cygnus Alpha, it could be considered a mercy killing.

* * *

  
Vila felt guilty. Not just about it probably being his fault the job had gone wrong—they must have bugged his cubicle and his table in the canteen—but about the mean and nasty remark he'd just made to the others when Blake had suggested that Avon might make a deal with the crew. He'd said it partly to look tough, and partly to get back at Avon for acting as if they had never met. Avon was a cold fish, but he wouldn't do them in like that any more than Vila could kill anyone.

He looked over at Avon, all alone and apart from everyone else as if he were still surrounded by glass walls, just sitting there, staring at nothing. Vila pulled a face. Avon would probably just tell him to go away again, but he had to do _something_.

 

"Look, it's not that bad."

Avon turned his coldest look on Vila. "Isn't it?"

Vila shuffled nervously. "I know what it's like to lose someone. And no matter how hard it seems at the time—"

"Spare me your platitudes."

"No." Vila swallowed. "I'm going to say what I was going to say. I've been in places I bet you can't even imagine. I was in the Juvenile Detention Wards when I was eleven—any idea what that's like?—and a penal colony not long after. I survived."

"Obviously. Is there a point to this conversation?"

"Yeah. You never know how things'll turn out. Blake's plan might work. I'm just saying you shouldn't give up"

Did he suspect? "Ah. It's darkest before the dawn?"

Vila looked warily hopeful. "Yeah."

"There's a silver lining in every tunnel?"

Vila sniggered. "Something like that."

"And where there's life, there's hope?" Avon said bitterly. "Is that what you're saying?"

Vila nodded.

Avon sneered. "Mere clichés."

"Doesn't stop them being true though, does it?" Vila's concerned gaze wavered as Avon stared at him in silence, and he ducked his head. "I'm sorry. Thought it might help. Never mind." He started to leave, then hesitated. "Look, don't suppose you'd fancy a game of..."

"No," Avon said softly.

Vila smiled slightly. "Another time then." He left, walking almost jauntily.

Avon stayed where he was. _Fool. Idiot. Sentimental buffoon_, he thought, unsure whether he meant himself or Vila.

"Well?"

He looked up at Sub-Commander Raiker. "Is that a question?"

"Is that supposed to be funny? Did you get my note?"

"Yes, I rather thought it would be you. Are all of you in on it, or is this just a private deal between the two of us?"

"Just us. But I'm sure the rest would see reason after a..." Raiker smirked, "regrettable accident in which the convict quarters were unexpectedly exposed to vacuum while the Captain was inspecting the facilities."

"I assume I would be among the dead too."

"Only officially. I'd drop you off somewhere on the way back."

_Yes. I'm sure you would_. Avon looked at the officer in front of him and compared him to the criminal he had just been talking to. He realised that he had made his decision. He took the note out of his pocket.

"No deal," he said and tore it in two.

The end

  



End file.
